Awake, I am Dreaming
by pfeffi
Summary: She dreams of a man who spins straw into gold. —Rumbelle.


**notes -  
**

wrote the majority of this back at the end of the first season. finished it today. oops. i guess, then, that means this is technically an au. hurrah?

oh, & i should mention that this is kind of all over the place. hope you enjoy it, regardless!

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**Awake, I am Dreaming**

/

She can't remember how long she's been in the hospital (_cell_). She kept a count, once, scratched upon the wall. One of the nurses, the nice one who quit a few weeks in, had snuck her a pen. She used it until the ink dried out and the only thing left to do was scratch lines into the wall. She had stopped once she hit a number too large—one thousand, three hundred, sixty two, probably. It had been a Wednesday. Or at least, she thinks it had been a Wednesday. The days, she discovered, begin to blur when all one has is the sunrise and sunset to determine the hour.

It's better that way, though. She doesn't think she wants to remember. To continue counting the days would hurt. It would remind her, even more, that the more time she spends in the hospital means the less time she can spend outside. The less time she could spend exploring, reading, dancing, laughing, loving, dreaming—

No. She pauses. She dreams enough, in here.

With less counting comes more sleeping. With more sleeping comes more dreaming. And oh, does she _dream_. She's always been a dreamer (she thinks, anyway), but this is something different. Something special. Something _real_. Vivid colours paint her mind nightly, telling her stories of a princess, bearing the same face as her, whose kingdom was in the midst of a war. A princess who makes a deal with a devil (Dark One, he calls himself, with a little snicker a quick upturn of his lips) and seals her fate to save her people. She dreams of golden gowns and sees every little detail: the embroidery in the fabric, the loose stitches at the hem, the beading on the bodice. She can feel the silk, hear the ruffles scrape against the stony palace floors. She can feel the cold bite of the wind that circles the princess—her, she thinks—outside of the palace doors, once the deal is made and she is pulled away from the only life she ever knew.

In her dreams, she feels fear—and also courage.

Most times, her dreams seem to be more like memories than fantasies. How else would she be able to know every room in the Dark One's palace? How else would she be able to feel the bruises on her knees and wrists from where she bumped into a doorknob, slipped on a wet floor? How else would she remember the thrill when he would laugh and flourish his hands, purple magic dancing from his fingertips? Or the time when he offered her a rose, bowing with a mock seriousness that made her feel—made her feel special.

How else would she remember quiet nights, when she would slowly dust the spine of every book lining his library's shelves, and he would sit at the spinning wheel, forgetting?

She remembers that the most vividly.

When she closes her eyes and slips into the world of dream (of memory), she pictures a monster who is only a man, seated on a small stool, trailing thread between his fingers. He eyes the fabric like its something reverent, beautiful, mournful. He's slow to string it into the wheel and turn it, watch it shimmer and change. It doesn't satisfy him, not enough, so he asks her to fetch straw. She brings it back to him, watching as he slips it into the wheel and spins it into gold. The stiff straw becomes something moldable, sparkling. It steals her breath away, every time. And she'll ask, as she always does, why he spins—he has all the gold in the world at his fingertips, surely he doesn't need anymore. He looks at her (but not always _at_ her) and says, "It helps me forget, dearie." Every time, the same answer. And then he laughs.

Her eyes open again.

She curls into the wall, pressing her face against the cold brick. the papery feel of her clothing is nothing like the dresses in her dreams. The light shining from her window is not as warm as the light that filtered through the curtains of her room—_I'm the princess_, she thinks, reminds herself—in all the palaces she had stayed. And the laughter she hears, on those rare occasions outside her door, is nothing like the goldspinner's. There is no smile behind them. No teasing gestures.

Today, of all days, this makes her indescribably sad. But today, just like all days, nothing will change.

Or—

"I'm the Sheriff!" A voice is shouting, somewhere out there, beyond the door. "If Regina's hiding something—or someone—down here, then I damn well have the right to know about it. _And_ I have the authority to investigate it!"

There's a pause. Her heart has become a desperate butterfly, beating its wings frantically, trying to escape its cage. Could it—

She hears something loud. A slam against a hard surface. Then there are footsteps. This is a change, from the silence. She's curious, so curious, but she's feeling it—the fear, without the courage. She shrinks back, further into the wall, as though she could become a part of it. (She can't, this is irrational, and she knows it.) Maybe they will find her. Maybe they are here for her. Or maybe they are here for the newcomer, in the neighboring room.

The footsteps draw closer. She stares at the blocked window in her door, waiting with bated breath. The footsteps stop. The lock clicks. The door is forced open with a loud squeak and the anxious muttering of the nurse. In walks a woman with golden hair and a jaw set in stone; behind her limps a man, holding onto the knob of a cane. He takes one look at her, pressed against the white brick, and freezes. Their eyes lock. He doesn't move for a long moment. Not until the woman prompts: "Well?"

He chokes on his own words, eyes never leaving hers.

"It's—it's you," he croaks.

The blonde woman—no, heroine would be a better title—looks back and forth between her and the man, blue eyes searching for a hidden truth, a tangible understanding.

"Mind telling me what the hell's going on, now?" The heroine asks.

The man doesn't say anything. He can't say anything. His Adam's apple is bobbing but no words are coming out. His quivering hands grip the handle of his cane so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He looks as though he's seen a ghost: a living, breathing phantom. The expression on his face is almost frightening, but something—some little, chiming voice—tells her that there is nothing to fear. (_Have courage. This is where you must feel the courage._) She recognizes him. She knows him.

"Goldspinner," she says. How foreign her voice sounds.

It takes him a moment, but he manages to murmur: "Just Gold now, dearie," and offers her his hand.

It's the same outstretched hand. She remembers those long, spindly fingers, and how quickly straw used to pass through them, how nimbly they turned the spinning wheel. Slowly, she lifts her own hand from its resting place on her knee, and reaches out for him. He nearly drops his cane, lurching forward to pull her to her feet.

She teeters back and forth for a moment. when she staggers, his arms are around her. she remembers these, too. Like his fingers, his arms are slender, but they are warm. they close around her like bookends, keeping her sturdy and upright. These are the same arms that caught her before; she remembers curtains, nails, and getting used to sunlight.

"Let's go home," Gold says, voice cracking.

She doesn't have to think about it. "Okay." She says. "Let's."

And ignoring the protests of the blonde heroine with the searching eyes, he carefully steers her away.

(For once, she's glad she isn't dreaming.)

/

**Fin**


End file.
